


Automaton

by neveralarch



Category: Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:32:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This body is the most perfect vessel that he has ever inhabited.</i> The Master has an awful lot of feelings about his new body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Automaton

The first thing that the Master does after he awakes in his new body is fight with the Doctor. He had not asked to be resurrected, he had not asked to be trapped in the TARDIS, he had not asked to accompany the Doctor on his idiotic adventures. The fact that the Doctor has forced all of these things on him is unbearable.

It doesn't matter that he wants to live, that he is almost pathetically grateful for this chance at an extended life. What matters is that now everything is on the Doctor's terms. The Master wanted his say, and now he has it. He says quite a few things, the words skidding over every excuse and justification the Doctor tries to make.

So they fight, and then the Master leaves, steals away into some corner of the TARDIS where he won't have to talk to the Doctor. It's cowardice, but the Master has never claimed to be brave.

The second thing the Master does is explore his new body, this shell of machinery. He finds a small box of tools and tests every bit of himself, finds his limits and his capabilities. He's done this many times before, each new body subject to a battery of tests. Usually the tests involve fewer pliers and voltage gauges, but the routine is still calming. The Master’s regenerations were always of excellent quality, up until the last. The less said about the last, the better. Tremas' body had been reasonably good, once molded to his will. Bruce's body had been barely acceptable, though that was certainly the corrosive influence of the Master’s own unstable essence.

This body is the most perfect vessel that he has ever inhabited.

It's highly advanced technology merged with ancient simplicity. The Master moves an arm and can feel the gears and springs moving inside, the pull of metal so like and unlike that of flesh musculature. He unscrews the panel of his skin that covers his left forearm and then watches what happens as he reaches out, the sparks of his brain setting the complex relay of machinery into motion.

The Master watches, and thinks of the Doctor setting every piece carefully into place. He could have made this with a fabricator, or repurposed a mass-produced shell. But the Doctor's fingerprints are quite literally impressed on every tiny piece of metal and plastic which make up the Master's bicep, his forearm, his torso.

The Master curls his left hand into a fist and uses his right hand to gently touch the thin sheen of nerve-endings that cover the gear work in his arm. The shock and pain is intense - it would probably be diluted if he hadn't taken away his skin. No inefficient wires here, but a nearly-organic plastic that plugs into his skin panels. He screws the missing panel back into place, and then runs his fingers up and down along the join, enjoying the softer sensation. It's beautiful work. He thinks about taking off his face to see what's hidden behind that, but he's not sure if he'd still be able to see.

His skin is the most interesting part. It looks life-like, flesh and blood and all, but it's hard porcelain. The Master raps his now-whole arm and listens to the chink of ceramic hitting together. It's strong, strong enough to show no scratch from the impact.

The Doctor's obsession with Earth showing through? The Master's seen automata, the primitive toys made by humans who could only dream of true robotics. Perhaps he should be grateful that he was made with clay and not with leather.

His face is the only place where there is hair, carefully implanted into some form of webbing. His face in general is more mobile than the rest of him, the ceramic fused with some newer technology that allows him to frown and smirk and laugh. The Master touches his arm again, the smooth, impervious arm that the Doctor made, and he doesn't do any of those things.

\---

The Doctor sees the Master now and then. He's stopped sulking or skulking or whatever he thought he was doing, down in the dusty corners of the TARDIS' forgotten rooms.

They haven't exchanged words since the screaming match, but the Doctor has decided that this is probably for the best. Give him time to settle down. The Master is adaptable, he'll get used to things in time.

Tools keep going missing. The Doctor should put a stop to it – he loses enough things without the Master stealing them outright. But instead he leaves toolsets out and doesn’t lock any doors in the TARDIS except the one leading to the outside. He can understand the need to explore oneself.

\---

The Master cannot process food. He can process tea, for some reason, the liquid stored and then used as coolant when his joints become hot from overuse. They'd rust eventually, if they were made of inferior metal, instead of being cushioned porcelain ball-joints. Tea, but no food. One pleasure of life gone, though he supposes he could just simulate tastes by hacking into his sensory system. It wouldn’t be the same, but variety is the spice of life, or so he’s been told.

He can smoke, but he can't process the nicotine or feel the taste of the tobacco rising up through his sinuses. He can drink alcohol, but he can't get drunk and he's not sure if he likes the idea of his body using fine wines as a disinfectant or a cleaner. All of the Master’s vices have been surgically removed, the Doctor’s careful work not allowing for self-destruction or any imitation thereof.

The Doctor has left him one indulgence, however. The Master rocks on three porcelain fingers inserted into his arse and reflects on the Doctor's arrogance. Or his condescension. Or his graciousness. Or his inability to imagine the Master not being capable of having sex or enjoying sex or _something_ , and his synapses are getting confused by the hand around his cock that doesn’t really feel like his own. The Master feels completely divorced from this body that the Doctor made. It is stiff in some places and responsive in others, and he think he could probably add another finger except he can't quite manipulate his hand the way he wants to.

He withdraws his hand and scrabbles around the worktable he is leaning on, looking for a particular screwdriver with a long, rounded, plastic handle.

It's so _typical_ of the Doctor to do this to him. All of this. The Master can't be bothered to be specific when he's coating a screwdriver in machine oil and-

oh, that feels amazing.

The Doctor's fingerprints are probably inside him here as well, though the Master can't exactly stretch to see them. He feels claimed and unreal and desperately empty even though he can't see how he could be more full than he is right now.

He's not sure if he can actually come. His cock responds to stimuli, but he doesn't seem to be heading toward release. Eventually the Master just presses his face into the polished metal of the table and concentrates on the screwdriver. He forgets his cock and runs his free hand up his chest, scratching and pinching as he has always liked.

All he gets is the scrape of ceramic, grating on his audio input, and he has to give that up as well. His hand bites into the table instead, and that he can mark, long scratches and scrapes against the sheen of steel.

It turns out he can come, after all, but it's not really as satisfying as he had hoped.

\---

The Doctor starts leaving notes for the Master which the Master probably doesn't read. They say things like 'If you stop by, I can probably adjust the dexterity to suit,' or 'Are the knees working? They were giving me some difficulty.' He writes the notes and then drops them wherever he likes, wandering back in a few days to see if anything has happened. They never move. The Doctor can’t decide if they’re being ostentatiously ignored, or if the Master is simply unaware of their presence. There are certainly no responses, but with each unanswered note the Doctor feels a bit less guilty about the whole ordeal.

He had thought the Master would be pleased with all that the Doctor had done for him. The Doctor had worked for years for this moment. Admittedly, the reason it took years was because he had kept getting distracted and going on adventures, but it's the thought that counts. And he's been thinking about this for a long time.

The Doctor writes another note, which says 'I can help you understand it.' Then he crumples and tears it until it's all but irrecoverable. He writes another that says 'I made you.' This one he burns.

\---

The Master can't mark his own skin. It can't be true porcelain, because porcelain would chip and crack and break. He tries with hammers and diamond shards and tiny metal picks, but he cannot scratch and he does not bruise. He tries always, always, with his own two hands. The sound of porcelain scraping stops bothering him, after a while. His ears are capable of learning, then, or his brain is capable of ignoring their input.

He cannot do anything physical to this body to make it his own. He took Tremas' body and made it the Master, part and parcel of his self, but this artificial form resists his every attempt.

The Master finds a cache of art supplies, brushes and paints and canvases. The canvases are left in their cupboard and he takes to painting on his own skin, blue dyes picking out parodies of tattoos and china patterns. He traces out the Doctor's old badge of exile, the serpent on his forearm, and it seems oddly appropriate.

He doesn't know why he's here or why the Doctor made him like this.

Perhaps it's time to ask.

\---

The Doctor finds one of his notes propped up in the kitchen, near the sink. He picks it up with wet hands that drip on the edges and blur the words, forcing him to squint at the damn thing and his own tiny handwriting. It's the note about whether the ball joint that forms the basis of the Master's neck is sticking, a note he’d left several rooms away, on a staircase. There's no real reply on the other side of the note. It just says 'I'm in the control room.'

The Doctor purses his lips and runs his wet fingers through his hair, slicking it back in a way that he has decided is not an imitation of the Master at all.

He argues with himself about whether he should bow to the Master's whims after weeks of radio silence, wins, and then goes to the control room anyway.

\---

The Doctor takes longer than expected, and the Master gets bored. He doesn't sleep and he can't eat, and he gets bored so easily now. He leans against the console, feeling the TARDIS hum and thrum against him, harmonizing with the clicking of his gears. The vibration pulls at him as he tinkers with his skin panels.

This has become his habit, half-unscrewing the panel in his left forearm so that he can watch the mechanism as he wiggles his fingers. It's beautiful and entrancing, and it reminds him of what he is.

"Stop playing with that," snaps the Doctor. He strides over to the console, his hands not quite reaching for the Master. "There's a reason your innards are inner."

"I know what I'm doing," says the Master, but he shuts the panel again anyway. A few twists with the screwdriver, and then he strokes the skin, the familiar screech of porcelain. The Doctor winces, and tries to look like he didn't.

"What was it you wanted?" asks the Doctor.

"That's what I was going to ask you," says the Master, and watches the Doctor's face shutter. "Why am I here, in this?"

"I wasn't going to give you another living body to possess," says the Doctor. "I think I did a nice job of finding an alternative."

"It's interesting," says the Master. Porcelain screeches again as he rubs his arm and then pulls his sleeve back down. "You must have worked very hard."

"A hobby," says the Doctor.

"You've made me indestructible," says the Master. "An interesting hobby."

"You're difficult to physically damage," allows the Doctor. "I found that more life-like skin had too many problems with degradation."

"I see," said the Master. "Ceramics are so much more static." There's a bitterness in his voice which surprises himself, let alone the Doctor. He reaches for his arm again, the next futile attempt to mark himself, and the Doctor reaches out a hand and grabs his wrist.

The feeling is electric, the touch sparking up through the Master's skin and into his brain. These are the hands that made him. Made this body, the Master corrects himself, but he doesn't quite believe that. In his futile attempt to make this shell into his self, he's really been mating his self to the shell. He sucks in a breath that he doesn't need and tries to stay calm as the Doctor rolls up his sleeve.

"What have you been doing?" murmurs the Doctor.

The Master's forearm is a mess of faded blue dye, haphazardly scratched through to reveal the pristine ceramic beneath. The Doctor's fingers trail through the destroyed designs and come away blue as well.

"Don't move," says the Doctor. "I'm going to get a wash cloth."

The Master shudders when the Doctor moves away. He waits, not moving an inch, his arm still half-outstretched when the Doctor returns.

The Doctor doesn't waste time on surprise, just bends down and draws the wet cloth across the Master's arm. With slow, sure strokes, he wipes away every attempt the Master's made to take his body for his own. He cleans away where the Master has tried to obliterate the Doctor's fingerprints, tried to ruin the claim the Doctor has placed on his body and his self.

The Master would like to be infuriated, but instead he just shivers and wants.

When the Doctor is done, he sets the washcloth on the console and runs his fingers down the Master's arm again. His head is down, watching the movement, and the Master can feel the burn of bruising even though the Doctor's hands leave no mark.

"There," says the Doctor.

"There," repeats the Master, and jerks his arm away. "I think we're done for today."

"If that's what you want," says the Doctor, languid and uncharacteristically agreeable. "I think your knee needs adjusting, though. I can tighten it for you."

The Master looks down at his right leg. He'd been favoring it, but he hadn't stopped to worry about it, not yet.

The Doctor's hands in his gearing, tightening coils and replacing springs, delving deep under the organic plastic of his nervous system-

The Doctor is smiling. It's the first time the Master's seen him do that in this regeneration.

"Later," says the Master. He walks away while he still can.

"I'll be waiting," calls the Doctor, and the Master lets him have the last word.


End file.
